The Dreamer's Descent
The crystal ball was cold against Arthur's palm, colder than any glass had a right to be, and as the lamplight caught its surface, the library at Blackwood Hall dissolved like sugar in rain. Arthur did not wake in his bed. He woke on stone, on his knees, in a corridor that stretched into fog on both sides. The walls were lined with portraits whose eyes followed him—not with the lazy tracking of...
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